


Decent Night

by DustToDust



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:37:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustToDust/pseuds/DustToDust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleep is not something that Malik takes for granted anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decent Night

The lines of the map blur before Malik’s eyes forcing him to put aside his quill and rest them. They burn from lack of sleep. Sleep which gently tugs at him, an enticing call that he will have to succumb to eventually. Malik forces his eyes open before he can fall asleep at the table and ruin what little work he’s done that night. Looking back down at the map shows him that his vision still refuses to set the lines straight.

He knows better than to continue working. The maps he produces in this state are only fit to be kindling for a fire. Malik sighs and wipes the ink off the end of his pen before sealing the inkpot. The liquid is nearly gone and he frowns as he sets it on the shelf. Surely he isn’t almost out, he had just bought a new pot of the stuff the other day. There is no new pot on the shelf though, and a look around the room fails to reveal it.

A faint sound catches his attention and Malik stares at the darkened courtyard. It takes his tired mind far too long to remember Altair’s presence and the fit of anger that had determined the fate of his new ink. It had been a waste to throw the ink at Altair, but the man is utterly _impossible_ to deal with even at the best of times! Demanding Malik’s attention all the time and persisting in _talking_ despite how busy he is. His stare quickly turns into a glare at the reminder, though all he can see in the courtyard is the fountain and the edge of one of the many cushions.

And the round shape of his new pot of ink.

Malik walks to the door, stopping on the threshold to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light of the moon filtering in through the latticework entrance on the roof. Through the darkness he can make out the form of the inkwell balanced on the lip of the fountain, intact as far as he can tell. Malik pauses as he walks into the courtyard to inspect it closer looking at the man laying on the cushions out of sight from the door. Altair is slumped against the wall and does not seem to register Malik’s presence at all in his deep, untroubled sleep. Malik bites back the bitter anger that wants him to wake the other man up. Prudence warning him how dangerous any Assassin can be when startled out of sleep suddenly.

As nice as it would be to make Altair feel as sleep deprived as himself it is not worth the inevitable blade to the gut.

Altair shivers as he watches, the air of the night blowing in through the entrance has cooled the courtyard quickly since the sun set hours ago. Malik thinks about closing it for a brief second, but knows he will need every bit of that coolness the next day when the sun rises. Altair can just suffer through it for one night.

A little cold is the least of what the man deserves for his crimes.

The vindictive thought, a variation of what he has been thinking of for months now, is weak even in his own mind. Malik is running out of reasons to hate the man before him, and does not like the direction his thoughts are taking about it these days. Does not like the stirrings of hope that he feels when Altair fails to snap back with arrogance to Malik’s words, bowing his head and accepting the abuse instead. It is rather like beating a cowed dog and Malik finds himself getting sick of it.

Asleep like this Malik is free to take his time to actually look the man over properly. To study the things he’s only taken passing note of when the man is awake. There are dark bruises around his eyes giving silent testimony to how little Altair truly sleeps. They’re deep enough that it’s obviously not a new problem. His gear is, as always, in top condition, but his clothing is not. The robes are worn and gaining permanent stains, something that would have once horrified the proud man. In the faint light Malik can trace the shadows of new lines being etched into Altair’s face. They’re nearly unnoticeable now with his face relaxed, but fold into deeper lines when he’s awake. Lines Malik hasn’t paid much mind to in the light of day.

Little details that make it very hard not to see Altair as the beaten dog Malik thinks of at times. Starved, scarred, and expecting attack from every angle but still stubbornly pushing on.

Cursing his own soft mind, Malik grabs one of the thin blankets near the door and drapes it over Altair. The man does not stir in the slightest. He probably wouldn’t even wake up if Malik were to take a dagger to his throat right now. The thought is too tempting to test despite the direction of his anger these days. Malik takes his ink and leaves the man to his sleep.

He retreats to the small room set aside for his own use. Malik pushes the heavy robe off his shoulders, letting it drape over a chest in the corner. His boots cling stubbornly to his calves despite the alterations he’s had made to make them easier to remove with one hand. Malik grunts as he pulls and kicks first one, and then the other off. Were the things not so comfortable he would have bought another set that are easier to deal with at the end of the day. The rest of his clothing is easier to deal with, and he quickly strips down to his pants before turning to the small pallet.

Malik lays down. Stretching out and resolutely ignoring the way his body automatically tenses in the familiar setting of one of his most constant battles. Sleep is something he both needs and dreads. For sleep always brings the same dreams to him these days.

He does not look forward to the nightmares. He never does, and this night especially he does not want them. Dealing with Altair is bad enough on its own. Having to deal with him in the morning after a night of restless sleep will be sheer torture. The only reason he’s attempting to sleep now is the fact that it would not be any better with no sleep at all. Malik closes his eyes and consciously runs through a relaxation technique he had picked up from an old instructor. Relaxing his muscles one by one before allowing sleep to claim him.

~

Malik wakes up an unknown amount of time later clutching he left arm. He’s curled over it, protectively shielding the source of pain that he swears never seems to go away. He lays still and quiet as images from his half remembered dreams still flicker across the backs of his eyelids. Faceless men with saws for hands, innumerable hordes of Crusaders, and a scream that he will hear until the day he dies. His breathing slows quickly, but Malik does not dare to believe he will be able to sleep again that night.

His nightmares are nothing if not consistent.

The air in the room is too still and heavy. Malik rises to his feet and slips out into the courtyard needing the coolness offered there. Not caring if he wakes Altair at all he kneels at the fountain, splashing water on his face and over the burning remains of his arm. The chilled water makes him shiver hard and chases the last vestiges of his dreams away. The water is so cold against his skin it almost hurts. Bent over nearly into the basin of the fountain, he can hear the harsh sound of his own breathing echoing back. Quick and loud, battering his ears before he can slow it to a nearly inaudible but steady pace.

It’s no surprise when he sits back up that alert eyes are fixed on him from the shadows of the hood that had fallen before but is now up again. Malik doesn’t shrink back from under them. Altair has no room to judge the troubles Malik has to live with. He slides his hand over his head, pushing water from his hair to roll down his neck and hit his back. “Is there something you need, Altair?”

"No," Altair says after a lengthy and obvious pause where he’s obviously aware of the menace lurking in Malik’s words. His right hand plucks at the blanket that has been pushed to the side. "Do _you_ need anything?"

Malik doesn’t bother with words, and Altair seems to realize how incredibly stupid the question is the second it leaves his mouth. He flinches back and his eyes nearly disappear under his hood before he thinks better of it. Raising his head up to meet his eyes and not taking the question back at all.

There are a slew of replies to that question. Most of them bitter and cutting. As likely to hurt Malik himself as Altair, and Malik is getting tired of that kind of double sided anger. Struggling for something to say that won’t cut his own tongue on the way out, something a bit closer to the truth than he’d like slips out. “A decent night of sleep would not be unwelcome.”

"Would you like the moon as well?" Altair asks, voice wry as his lips quirk up, and Malik doesn’t think it a trick of the light the the shadows under the glimmer of his eyes looks deep. He remembers the bruised skin there all too well. Malik is not the only one in need of a decent nights sleep.

"If you are in the habit of making the impossible happen, then yes," Malik replies and then they descend into an awkward silence as Altair obviously struggles with finding something to say. It’s almost amusing how unprepared the man is to have levity thrown at him instead of insults, but Malik is too tired to appreciate it. The prospect of returning to his room to try for a few more hours of sleep drains any other emotion out of him. He doesn’t _want_ to go back to the stifling room and the nightmares it contains, but his eyes still burn from the lack of sleep. He’s already pushed himself nearly to the edge of uselessness and cannot push any further without risking serious consequences.

"Don't," Altair says, sudden and blunt. He shrugs and flips the blanket he'd removed even further aside, nodding at the pile of cushions next to him. 

The snort is reflexive but Malik bites back the insult that wants to leave his mouth, because he does not want to go back to that room. The open coolness of the courtyard has cooled his heated skin, and is much preferable to the stuffy room even with Altair's still somewhat grating presence. 

"I highly doubt," Malik grumbles even as he settles into the familiar give of the cushions. Each one chosen specifically by him because he knows all too well how important the comfort of them matters in the long run to traveling Assassins. "That this will help with my problems at all."

"It won't," Altair says, and there's something in his voice that makes long ingrained instinct in Malik come to life with a shiver of apprehension. He jolts when Altair moves. Quick and fluid as he kneels up and pivots. Until he's kneeling above Malik. A leg on either side of Malik and looking down at him. " _This_ will though."

The weight of Altair's body straddling his legs is unfamiliar as is the look on his face. Malik shifts, feeling the cool wall scratch across his back, but he doesn't flinch away from the sudden move and uncertainty. He only looks up at the man with suspicion, fist clenched and ready for whatever idiotic thing is obviously crawling through Altair's mind.

He's not prepared though for the hand that splays out over his left collarbone. Four fingers barely touching the mess of scars that start at his shoulder and get worse the further down the arm it goes, and thumb pressed lightly in the hollow of his throat. Not prepared at all for the second hand that mirrors the first. For the way Altair's fingers tense, tips digging into Malik's flesh before he slowly drags both down in something that is unmistakably a caress.

"What," Malik carefully enunciates and doesn't move, clamping down hard on the urge to shiver as he's touched, "are you doing?"

_Everything is permitted_. It's one of the tenets of their Order, and the one most often quoted by any number of brash young men as justification for anything from minor pranks to needless killing. It's more than just a justification though. It's something that they are all taught as Novices, and something they've been encouraged to apply to the world and life at large. To not allow themselves to be shackled by the mores and morals of the world, of religion, of upbringing.

Anywhere else, the sure slide of Altair's hands down Malik's bared chest would be grounds for an unquestioning death. Relations between men are not as uncommon as most would think, but the actuality of it is something that is very cautious and furtive. Even among the Brotherhood such things are neither common nor spoken of, and are often the result of _years_ of cautious overtures only the deaf and blind could miss. Slow courtships to make sure both men are not misunderstanding the wants of the other before making perhaps one of the most terrifying Leaps of Faith Malik has witnessed in his years. 

"What do you think?" Altair asks and his thumbs catch on Malik's nipples. His fingers spread wide as he brushes the calloused finger tips back and forth over them until Malik can't bite back the hiss and shiver that run through him at the sensation. His lips quirk up into a familiar smirk that Malik hadn't realized has been missing from Altair's face. It's all confident arrogance because things are going exactly as he wants them to.

It is, perhaps, one of the most dangerous relationships an Assassin can pursue. Any sort of misstep could lead to one or both of their deaths, even in the relatives safety of Masyaf. If one lover were to take issue with the other it would take very little to end the quarrel violently. The trust needed to leave one open to that kind of vulnerability has always awed Malik a little, and has been the deciding factor in him _not_ going through with the two offers he had received before. 

There's none of that slow build in the very colorful history between the two of them though. No hint of the caution that _should_ be there in Altair's face as his touch grows firmer and his lips part in a look of desire that cannot be faked. Malik is not surprised. He doubts Altair ever paid any attention to consequences before, and even with his newly found sense of care he doubts the man would care much for consequences in this. Altair has always been the type to throw himself into things. Headfirst and reckless with no thought given to what it will cost him once it is over.

Malik doubts he even knows there will be consequences. The sense of fondness he feels at the thought is unexpected and he scowls to keep it from his face. He reaches out to grip Altair's side, and pulls when he knows he should push. "I think you are going too slow."

The smirk turns into a grin and Malik jerks when Altair slides a hand under the loose top of his breeches. His hand is almost burning against the sensitive flesh of Malik's cock as he strokes it. His other hand working the clothing down just far enough to bring him out into the open. Malik digs his fingers into Altair's side through his clothing and breathes deep as he grows hard under the touch. Firmer and more confident than any woman he's been with, because Altair knows himself what pressure and speed feels best. Pulling slowly until a bead of liquid starts to well from the flushed tip.

Malik groans when Altair drags his thumb over the head, dragging the liquid down to ease the friction of his palm. To make it easier to stroke faster, pull harder, and make Malik buck up hard. A victory of some sort going by the satisfied gleam in Altair's eyes. Another familiar look that Malik has seen too often. Usually from his back with Altair above him and a blade to his neck. 

"Is this fast enough to satisfy you?" Altair asks and Malik grits his teeth at the tone and the feel of another person's touch. The tight grip makes him want to do nothing more than roll his hips up until he spills himself across the man's fingers. The smug, nearly mocking tone in his voice makes Malik bite back that urge and molds his hand over the obvious bulge under Altair's clothing.

"You tell me," Malik says with his own smugness as the touch is enough to make Altair go unnaturally still above him. Kneading a little makes his eyes slam shut and a full throated groan leave him before he stiffens and glares a little resentfully down at Malik. "Is this fast enough?"

Altair's lips curl up into the ghost of a snarl that Malik gets a bare second to enjoy before he's fighting the reaction as Altair squeezes his cock firmly and twists his hand up. Malik goes a little breathless and doesn't fight when Altair knocks his hand away. Placing it back against his side before he's yanking at his clothing with one hand. Moving and pulling until his own cock is freed.

Malik thinks about moving to touch for himself, but Altair shifts. Settling more firmly on him and his cock is hot and smooth when he presses them both together in the loose circle of his hand. Free of the gloves he usually wears as much as his hood, is calloused from a life of climbing and fighting. The contrast between the roughness of his hand and the silky slide of his cock pressed against Malik’s is unbelievable. Malik rolls his hips up cautiously, and Altair makes a soft noise before widening his stance. Spreading his legs wider to steady him over Malik, and his free arm shoots over Malik’s shoulder to flatten against the wall. Palm to elbow, shortening the distance between them enough for Malik to hear the way his breathing hitches with each slow stroke.

"Still too slow," he chides but doesn't make a move to correct that. Not yet at least.

Malik drags his hand up from Altair’s side, and regrets that the man is still fully dressed. It has been too long since he last felt the bare skin of another. A luxury he had never known he liked until it was no longer an option for him. It’s been nearly a year since any have looked at him with something that isn’t pity or disgust. His missing arm making him nearly taboo to any but the least pious of people. Denied access to Altair’s skin by his own impatience Malik contents himself with pushing his hand into the raised hood and raking his hand through the hair there as he pushes it down.

Altair leans back into the touch. His eyes are heavy and his hips thrust hard when Malik's nails scrape down the back of his head. Intrigued, Malik grips the short hairs at the back of Altair’s head and pulls. Watching in fascination as his head tilts back, mouth opening on a moan that Malik has to lean up to kiss. Feeling the sound vibrate through his lips as Altair shifts to accommodate the new position. His hand never slows, gripping and squeezing them both even as his breath hitches in his chest. Escaping as a muffled moan every time Malik pulls his hair, or his fingers circle the heads of their leaking cocks.

Altair enjoys it, the noises he makes and the way his grip tightens when Malik pulls make it obvious. So, Malik makes sure to keep up the pressure. His body arches back with Malik’s firm grip, and the shift of his muscles Malik glimpses through the disarrayed clothing is mesmerizing. "Harder, Altair."

"Y-" the word breaks off in Altair's throat. Drowned out by a low moan when Malik pulls harder before letting up on the pressure. His hand tightens around them both and Malik groans in approval. He thrusts up and waits for Altair to catch his breath. His eyes to open again and mouth to move like he's going to say something before pulling hard again. The sharp cry he gets is worth so very much.

Malik uses his grip to pull Altair forward and down. Gets his mouth near an ear and _growls_ , "Harder."

The shudder that runs through Altair translates pleasurably through his hand before he grips them both firmly. Obeying without comment or argument perhaps for the first time in his life. Malik rewards him with a sharp bite to the flesh of his ear and another sharp yank on his hair.

"Ah," the sound falls out of Altair's mouth. Surprisingly soft and breathless as Malik sets his shoulders against the wall and braces his feet to rut up into the other man's hand. Pulling Altair's head back with each thrust, and setting up a fast pace that Altair struggles to keep up with. His hand not able to hold them both and pull at the speed Malik wants.

"Just hol-" Malik's sharp instruction to hold still is cut off by Altair's lips and tongue as he turns his head to kiss him hard. Teeth biting into his lips until Malik parts his lips to allow the kiss to go deeper. Letting Altair's tongue press in, unmistakable hunger in the gesture and the muffled noises he's still making as the messily thrust against each other.

Altair goes rigid and Malik pulls harder on his hair, keeps thrusting up into Altair's suddenly still hand. Grinding up against his cock until he feels him spill between them. The warm fluid making them both slide faster as Altair's hand closes even tighter over them both. Malik hisses and doesn't let up on the hair in his hand as Altair seems to gather himself and his hand begins to move again. Jerky and slow but more than enough to finish him.

A loud curse falls from his mouth but Malik isn't aware of what he's saying as he arches up into that slick grip. The smooth glide enough to make his vision blank out a little as he comes hard. Adding to the warm mess between them. Malik sinks bonelessly down into the welcoming embrace of the cushions. He's more vertical than horizontal now, and the tiredness he's been ignoring creeps back up on him as he listens to the rustle of cloth.

Malik opens his eyes and stares. Altair kneels above him, legs splayed and unmindful of the state of his clothes. Gold eyes stare at the mess covering his hand before he brings it up to his mouth. Malik breathes out a groan as Altair’s tongue darts out to taste them both. Apparently finding the taste acceptable as he slowly licks his hand clean. The motion of Altair’s tongue and his look of _contentment_ make Malik want to pull the man back down. To push himself into his mouth and see if Altair would find that as pleasurable. His gut clenches at the thought, and if he was only a few years younger he would have been able to find out immediately.

Perhaps another time. Exhaustion catches up with Malik hard, and instead he pulls Altair down next to him on the cushions. His right hand reaching out for the thin blanket and throwing it over them both. He hears a breath being taken, preparation for a talk he does _not_ want to have. Malik grips the arm across his chest and says, “Not a word, not tonight. Just sleep, Altair.”

The breath is released as a sigh, and the arm relaxes. Malik waits for Altair to fall asleep first before closing his own eyes and drifting off more easily than he normally does. If he dreams for the hours left in the night, he does not remember it in the morning when he wakes to find Altair laying more on his chest than the cushions. A smothering weight that isn’t as annoying as it should be.


End file.
